


a living dream

by QueenWithABeeThrone



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Character Is Secretly Another Character, Crack Treated Seriously, Crossover, Dungeons & Dragons 5th Edition, Future Fic, Long Lost/Secret Relatives, Memory Alteration, Mollymauk Tealeaf Lives, Other, i hesitate to tag this as robb lives bc he. kinda doesn't., on the asoiaf side anyway, slightly a spitefic bc FUCK weiss and benioff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-29
Updated: 2019-05-29
Packaged: 2020-03-26 18:02:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19011016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenWithABeeThrone/pseuds/QueenWithABeeThrone
Summary: “Welcome back, Arya,” said Sansa, warmly, but her smile seemed more forced than anything, as if she was dreading something. Theon risked a glance at Bran, who met it and shook his head, as if to say, I can’t say. “Who are your friends, so we may welcome them more formally to Winterfell?”“We’re the Mighty Nein,” said the half-orc before Arya could answer. Theon squinted, and counted the figures out.“It’s Zemnian,” said the hooded man, tugging his hood down even further. Theon felt his breath catch in his throat. It couldn’t be. It couldn’t be.or: Molly isn't the only one in the Mighty Nein with a past he doesn't quite remember. it's just that Caleb's past apparently involves more castles, crowns, and wolves than any of them expected, even Caleb himself.





	a living dream

**Author's Note:**

> fic title is from Bob Dylan's "Never Gonna Be The Same Again". which, mood. thanks to Tommy for enabling this.
> 
> first chapter title is from Bon Iver's "Blindsided".
> 
> some notes about ASOIAF in this 'verse: Sansa Stark is Queen in the North, but there is healthy trade between the North and the South, ruled over by Stannis Baratheon, and the Iron Islands, ruled over by Asha Greyjoy. the Iron Throne has long been melted down so they could use the swords in the War for the Dawn, so Stannis is simply the King in the South (etc etc etc). Daenerys did not snap, and is chilling on Dragonstone raising a bunch of dragons and has opened her doors to a huge variety of refugees. the Wall, while broken, is still being watched over by the Night's Watch, currently commanded by Jaime Lannister. Arya and Gendry have been traveling all over the world together, with Gendry having gratefully given Storm's End to Edric, and officially are just doing it bc they want to see the world. in reality, they've been looking for Robb Stark, who wasn't as dead as previously thought, thanks to Bran for that heads-up.
> 
> unfortunately, Robb got packed off by Tywin to Tywin's old school friend Trent Ikithon, who was in dire need of bodies to throw into his little Vollstrecker program.
> 
> also, Westeros has been significantly changed to fit better into Exandria. the years-long seasons? magic brought about by the Others. as soon as the Others were defeated, the seasons returned to normal, and trade ran in a smoother fashion between Westeros and the rest of Exandria. fantasy races are a common sight, and magic is not a new thing, although maesters used to heavily regulate it so that only the Citadel and a section of the Sept in King's Landing could use magic of any sort. the North, however, has long been known for having some much stranger, older magic than the Citadel and the Sept have.

**THEON**

The day Arya Stark came back with her brother in tow was also the day Theon came back from visiting Asha, carrying a new axe as a gift from the Iron Islands’ ruler to the Starks of Winterfell. She and Rickon had gotten along splendidly the last time she’d come to Winterfell, and now they kept sending weapons to each other as a way of keeping in touch, and a way of expressing their care for each other.

What this usually meant for Theon was that he would end up having to lug heavier weapons into Winterfell than he, someone with fewer toes and fingers than everyone else, could conceivably carry. Usually he could find some stablehand to help him haul the damn thing to the Great Hall, but when he arrived, the yard was already in chaos.

“She’s coming!”

“Lady Arya’s coming home!”

“Get that log out of there, for Pelor’s fucking sakes, why is there even a _log_ —”

“Norea! Norea, you stupid girl, get over here and _help_ with clearing these stables out—”

Theon wheeled his horse about, so as to not accidentally tread anyone underfoot. Carefully, he swung himself off the palfrey and led it into the stable with only the minimal amount of shouting at a stable boy to _fucking move already_.

Arya was coming home? Now? That was a surprise. He’d thought she was planning to go to Whitestone, speak with the de Rolos over buying some of their famed whitestone for construction materials. Had she met with failure on that front then? He would have to take her for a drink if she did. Would Gendry mind overly much if Theon bought Arya a night with Rosalind? He would have to ask.

He hauled the axe off his horse with a grunt, dragging the sharp end across the ground, muscles aching as he more or less dragged the axe out of the stable. “Where’s Rickon?” he said to a stable boy.

“Um,” said the stable boy, a halfling of maybe fifteen, gawking dumbly at him. New one, then. Most of Winterfell already knew Theon damn well, they weren’t all that shocked by his appearance anymore. “He’s in the godswood?”

Theon beckoned the boy closer, then pressed a gold coin into his hand. “Ten silvers to go find him as fast as you can,” he said, “and another ten for you to gawk at someone else, I’ve no time for you.”

The boy scurried. Not three minutes later, Shaggydog all but tore through the crowds, barking at Theon and sniffing at the new axe. “Don’t stick your nose too close to that,” Theon admonished him, nudging him away with his foot. “You’ll cut yourself open and then I’ll have to explain to Sansa what happened.”

Shaggydog answered with another bark, but he seemed more curious about the axe than anything. Theon dug out some salt beef and tossed it further away, and the black direwolf descended on the meat with all the grace of an angry seagull that had just spotted a delicious-looking snack walking past on land.

“You’ve got to stop spoiling him,” Rickon complained, coming up to take the axe from Theon. “Is this from Asha?”

“The kraken carved into the handle wasn’t a giveaway?” Theon asked, stepping further away as Rickon lifted the axe up. “Don’t test that, you’ll take my head off.”

“Duly noted,” said Rickon, putting the axe back down so the tip of it stabbed into the ground. “You’re just in time, Arya sent us a raven over a week ago from White Harbor. Apparently she’d found someone we would want to talk to, but she’s only told Sansa so far, and Sansa’s not telling me anything.”

“Did you ask Bran?”

“I don’t want to ask Bran,” huffed Rickon. “He’s going to say something cryptic. I don’t need cryptic, I need _direct_.”

“Or you need to sit down for more than ten seconds and interpret it,” said Theon, “the way Sansa does.”

“ _No_ ,” said Rickon.

“It’s like you’re still four sometimes,” Theon said, and got a light punch to his shoulder in answer. “ _Ow._ ”

Sansa came out into the yard then, a bronze-and-iron crown resting regally on top of her head. Jon came out after her, clad in black in respect to his former ties to the Night’s Watch (and because Theon was fairly certain he just liked black), wheeling Bran out, the two of them chatting quietly.

“Who do you think she’s brought with her?” Rickon whispered to Theon, as the rest of Winterfell scrambled to their positions. Rickon had grown up wild, under the care of Osha on Skagos, so he usually didn’t give a damn about where to go when visitors were coming.

“I just found out she was coming back from you,” Theon whispered, “why’re you asking me?” Then he set off to take up his place, near the Starks—not a hostage or a prisoner, but part of their staff.

The portcullis went up. Arya came in first, her hair long enough now that she had tied it up behind her back. A cart came in next, the horses being driven by a half-orc man in leather armor, who had a firbolg with pink hair and green armor sitting beside him, looking around with a curious, dopey smile at his new surroundings. A little blue tiefling poked her head up and waved happily, as a human woman in blue leapt out of the cart, rolled across the ground, and came up with nary a bruise.

“Show-off!” called another tiefling, with purple skin and a coat so intensely colorful that it seemed an anomaly in the greys and whites of Winterfell, its wild hurricane of colors and patterns clashing against Winterfell’s stone and snow.

“You’re just jealous!” the woman called back.

A little halfling-shaped woman clambered off the cart next, tugged her hood down as if to hide her face. She, too, hit the ground, rolled, and came up without a scratch.

“Now you’re both showing off,” the purple tiefling complained.

“I could throw you,” said another woman, this one pale and possibly taller than the Hound with muscles to rival him. Her dark hair faded to white at the tips, and the hilt of a huge sword poked out behind her shoulder.

“ _Do it_ ,” said the tiefling, and the woman tossed him out of the cart. He hit the ground, rolled, and came up as well, but was rubbing his shoulder as he did. “I’m fine!” he called.

Snorts of laughter echoed from the cart, and Theon caught Rickon’s eye and shrugged. So far as he could tell, these people seemed to be mercenaries. He looked to Sansa, and saw her watching with wide, sorrowful eyes.

Strange. Who was she looking for?

The rest of them came down the old-fashioned way, with Arya helping the little blue tiefling out of the cart and the firbolg pulling a staff out from behind the cart. Another human, a man who kept the hood of his ragged coat up and his eyes downcast, was helped down by the purple tiefling, and cradled an orange tabby cat in his arms, lifting him up so the cat could rest around his neck like a scarf.

Theon squinted. Was that scarf—

“Welcome back, Arya,” said Sansa, warmly, but her smile seemed more forced than anything, as if she was dreading something. Theon risked a glance at Bran, who met it and shook his head, as if to say, _I can’t say._ “Who are your friends, so we may welcome them more formally to Winterfell?”

“We’re the Mighty Nein,” said the half-orc before Arya could answer. Theon squinted, and counted the figures out.

“It’s Zemnian,” said the hooded man, tugging his hood down even further. Theon felt his breath catch in his throat. It couldn’t be. _It couldn’t be._

Arya let out a breath, then walked over to the hooded man. Theon couldn’t hear them from where he was, but he saw the way the man seemed to sigh, as if resigned to his fate. He caught the lavender tiefling’s hand, a gesture of intimacy and familiarity that made Theon’s heart twist, just a little. The two whispered to each other, with the halfling tugging on the man’s sleeve and murmuring something else, then the man lifted his hands up.

He drew his hood back.

Theon’s heart didn’t stop, but it may well have. Gasps and surprised, interrupted cries of _is that_ went up around him.

He may have looked dirtier than before, he may have looked more gaunt and tired than before, he may have had longer and wilder curls like Rickon’s and darker circles under his Tully-blue eyes, but Theon would know Robb Stark’s face anywhere.

He said, “ _Robb?_ ”

And Robb said to Sansa, in an accent Theon had never heard before, “ _Guten abend, Euer Gnaden._ I am—sorry to disappoint, but my name is Caleb Widogast. I don’t remember being your brother.”

Oh.

Fuck, then.

\--

**SANSA**

How she managed to get through the business of introductions, Sansa could not say. Most of it was a fog in her head, where she’d only managed to retrieve names to put to faces and voices. The rest of it she had done by rote, wishing only to get it over with as soon as possible and flee from the ghost of her brother, haunting her steps.

And Caleb _was_ her brother, anyone could see that. She had scarcely dared to believe Arya when she had sent her the message, but now here he stood: older, thinner, more broken than she could ever have imagined him, but _alive_. And he’d found company as well, friends who banded together around him, friends who he seemed so much more comfortable with than her, or Jon, or Arya or Bran or Rickon or even _Theon_.

Theon was already in her chambers, when she staggered back, stoking a fire more for something to do than for any real need of warmth. The flame would burn continually anyway, she’d made sure to cast Continual Flame so her chambers were always warm, even in the coldest winters. Jon was next through the doors, snowflakes melting in his hair, and Rickon was fast on his heels, ducking his head so he wouldn’t hit the doorway, and cursing so well that Sansa was almost impressed.

“You could’ve _warned me,_ ” he said, once the swearing was done. “You could’ve said _something_ , you—”

“I tried,” Sansa said, slumping into her favorite chair. These had been her lord father and lady mother’s chambers once, a very long time ago, and when she was younger they had seemed so huge. Now, though—she was older than her mother, and the chambers seemed so _small_ sometimes that they almost suffocated. “You kept going off by yourself!”

“I did _tell_ you,” Bran said mildly, as Arya pushed him into the chambers. “But then you ran off to talk with the wildlings from the New Gift. If you’d stayed you could’ve heard it before Jon did.”

“For all the good that could’ve done,” Jon muttered, pacing now across the floor. Stannis, may the gods grant his soul peace, ground his teeth when he was stressed. Jon paced instead, which was overall much healthier. “He didn’t even _sound_ like himself.”

“You think?” said Arya, wheeling Bran closer to the fire. She took up her usual spot, after that—perched atop Sansa’s desk. “I spent a month and a half on a ship with him and the Mighty Nein. He wasn’t wrong when he said he wasn’t Robb. He’s not as good with a sword, for one thing, and he’s much better than Robb ever was at setting things on fire.”

Sansa remembered that well enough—the Starks were always a little bit inclined to the older magics, divine or arcane, and sometimes she would ask Robb to make a little fire, so she could stick a lemoncake on a stick and roast it. Maybe it took him a bit to actually hit the bundle of sticks and leaves she’d collected, but he always managed in the end. _But that was a thousand years ago._

“Don’t forget the group of mercenaries he’s traveling with,” she said now, “the ones from the Dwendalian Empire who somehow are friends of the Bright Queen in _Xhorhas_.” She rubbed at her temples, feeling a headache beginning to pound behind her eyelids. There were songs about the Mighty Nein out there, and their loyalties seemed to shift with every one. They were allies to King Dwendal, the Bright Queen, some wizard in a tower, the Cobalt Soul, the Storm Lord, some new god called the Traveler, the pirates of Darktow, the Clovis Conchord, the Ruby of the Sea, a marid who made a home underneath the sea—no one could agree on who they were truly loyal to. Sansa had long since learned not to trust the songs completely, but when a group’s loyalty shifted with every tale told of them, that was reason to be just a little bit suspicious.

“Apparently that was a complete accident,” said Arya. “I trust them, though. I’ve lived in close quarters with them for a month and a half.”

“I don’t,” said Sansa. “How can I? Everything we know about them says they switch their loyalties every other month.”

Theon, who had stayed silent so far, shoved the poker back into place so hard that the metal rattled. “Do you not trust _him,_ then?” he asked, turning to look at them, to look at _her_. “Your own brother?” His voice shook.

_No. Yes. No. Yes._ Sansa’s head was a whirlwind of answers, all of them conflicting with each other. She could not trust a group of mercenaries with uncertain loyalties. She wanted to trust her brother, even so changed as he was. He wasn’t Robb. He _was_ Robb. She wanted her brother back, she had missed him so much. She didn’t want her brother back, he would upset everything that had been carefully built over the years since the Red Wedding. She didn’t care. She couldn’t help but care.

Rickon said, baldly, “Well, I don’t remember him, so it’s not like I trust him or his friends any farther than the winter town.” He shrugged as Sansa turned to look at him, as Theon gaped at him in shock, and said, “What? You asked. Sansa’s always saying sellswords are loyal to the highest bidder and the highest bidder alone.”

“I trust him,” said Jon. Sansa could hardly blame him, he and Robb had been close when they were younger. “I don’t know about his friends, but I would trust my brother no matter what name he went by.”

Bran licked his lips, looked down at his blanket and picked idly at it. “I wish I could,” he said, his voice so soft and sad that it wrenched at Sansa’s heart. “But all I can think of is—I think I saw him in my dreams, a burning wolf walking away from a killing ground, a house that burned to ashes.” He raised his eyes and said, “What if that house is Winterfell?”

“What if it’s not?” Theon countered. “What if it’s something in his past? Daenerys saw a blue rose blooming on the Wall _after_ Jon went there, and she didn’t know what it meant until we found out about Rhaegar and Lyanna!”

Jon, as he always did whenever his birth parents were brought up, made a face like he was sucking on a lemon. “You don’t know if it was about something in the future or the past,” he said. “And either way, he’s still our brother. What do you think Father would say if he were here?”

Theon opened his mouth. Sansa narrowed her eyes at him and mouthed, _don’t,_ and he shut it again. The silence seemed to stretch on, as Sansa turned over what her father _would_ do, in this scenario.

“I don’t know,” said Rickon, with a shrug, breaking it. “I was, what, _four_ when he died, and that was a long time ago. I barely even remember him. Why does it matter, what he said?” He jerked a thumb towards the door. “ _He’s_ not the one with a dead brother coming back to life.”

“It matters because it’s relevant,” said Arya. “When Sansa and I were in King’s Landing—remember, I’d yelled at Septa Mordane?”

Sansa huffed out a quiet laugh. “She was practically purple with rage,” she said, fondly. “And then you ran off, and she told on you to Father. So Father went up to talk to you, and then he went back down and said something about getting you a dancing master.” She could still remember the way her father had looked, tired yet somehow lighter, after speaking with Arya. In her memory, he seemed to even smile, but memory could play tricks on her even now.

Arya smiled, this time, a sad and nostalgic thing. “He told me,” she said, “that when the winter comes, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives, and as different as we were, the same blood still flowed in us.” Her smile faded now, as she crossed her arms. “That’s still true of Caleb,” she said, and Sansa heard only the briefest hesitation before she said the name.

“He has another pack, though,” Rickon pointed out. “In case no one noticed that.”

“Yes, I missed the group of colorful people with a dog, a cat and three horses literally named after shit,” Theon said, bitterly sarcastic, “ _thank you_ for pointing that out, Rickon, I truly have no idea what any of us would do without you.”

“So we’ll keep an eye on them,” said Sansa, before Rickon could bristle back. “I don’t trust his friends, but—you’re not wrong. No matter what name he goes by, that’s still our brother. We can’t not trust him.”

“Do you still want me to keep an eye on him?” Bran asked, folding his arms across his chest and frowning.

“Just his friends,” said Sansa. “I really don’t need them to go over to Lady Dustin on a whim. We have enough trouble with her as it stands.”

She stood up. “You all have my leave to go,” she said. “I need to go to the godswood and pray.” And maybe have one single moment where she could finally take off the crown and _cry_.

Her brother had finally come home.


End file.
